Lifetime After Lifetime
by Sky Samuelle
Summary: Chuck has a strange dream after his first night with Blair. Or maybe it’s not so much of a dream as a memory … of another lifetime. Reincarnation fic.
1. Chapter 1

**LIFETIME AFTER LIFETIME**

Author: Sky Samuelle

Rating: PG 14

Words: 916

Disclaimer : If I owned Gossip Girl, Jenny and Dan would have far less screen time. Sadly, I don't.

Summary: Chuck has a strange dream after his first night with Blair. Or maybe it's not so much of a dream as a memory … of another lifetime. Reincarnation fic. Because, come on, we all know C&B are true soul mates.

---

_They weren't supposed to be doing this. She was his best friend's adoring little sister, and he had no right to touch her like th__is. She wasn't bound to him by any promise, and he was a soldier. He wasn't in the position to promise her anything in return for the innocence she was so willingly shredding under his hungry kisses. _

_He ha__d never considered her beautiful before tonight, although he had always thought of her as charming, in her unassuming, poised way. But her face while she offered herself to him, just a little while ago, had been so open and trusting, her hazel eyes so wide and pleading to not crush her, to not push her away._

_Noel __would never forgive them if he ever found out about this, and it would be fair. She was only a girl, and her future depended on her reputation._

_But he was only a man, and the __Fire had devastating Paris, giving the city a surreal look. Damned revolution. Their world was crumbling and his hands were bloody, so much that he never seemed to able to wash the taint away, So when he had seen her again among the ruins, the mere sight of her figure was been so familiar, tender, welcoming. He had felt entranced, like if it was the first time he had ever really looked at her._

"_Nobody sent me," she had explained herself.__ "They needed someone to deliver a message, and I volunteered to come."_

"Why?" he had asked, needing to hear what he already knew, deep down. He had known since he and Noel were attending the Military Academy and he would come over the house to visit his friend: he would discover her watching them from behind the stairwell, or turning her face away from him too quickly at lunch.

"_I __needed to know you were all right" her answer was straight forward, her chin jutted out, her eyes meeting his without evasion._

_She had kissed him first, her little hands cupping his cheeks and her lips softly pressing upon his. There was been a delicacy in that tentative gesture that had stirred in him both lust for her blossoming femininity and nostalgia for the simplicity of his old life._

_Paris__ smelled like death nowadays, and he suddenly couldn't recall the last time had seen or talked to Noel, the last time he hadn't hated his life, hated himself. He felt like an old man. He had allowed himself the luxury to hold her, to press her slim body to him while he tasted her. She smelled like life, love, and a thousand things he had forgotten. Kissing her was like learning to breathe again. _

"_I've always loved you," she had murmured later, in his ear, looking beyond his shoulder, her voice shy and broken. "Be my first lover."_

_Her request startled him. She wasn't one of those common, loose-costumed girls he could take to his bed without thinking, even if he wanted her, even if he hadn't known her family as well as he did. He could not being a selfless man, but he had enough honour left to not destroy her chances of marriage for a whim._

"_You know I can't accept you. It would ruin you." _

"_I came for *you*,"__ she reminded him, stubbornly, and his body's treacherous response to that statement stilled his breath, weakened his resolve. "I want to know we've at least had this, if I have to fear for your life and mine each other day._"

_She_ _was infatuated with him and he needed her, and while this spitfire of girl kissed him again, he began forgetting all the reasons why needing her was wrong. He no longer believed in anything, except her. Maybe they deserved to find some measure of peace, if only for one night._

"_Are you sure?"_

_  
__She smiled, nodding. His hand curled around the curve of her breast and he thought, while_ _she closed her eyes to his touch, still smiling, that God could not have created anything of more perfect than the creature in his arms. How he could have missed it was beyond him, but he wouldn't forget. Ever. _

_Somehow, he had to live beyond tomorrow to find her once more, to love her like she deserved. _

----

Chuck Bass awoke slowly. His head felt heavy, pounding with a weird sensation which wasn't- he decided straight away- hangover induced.

It was different in a sense he couldn't properly pinpoint. Yawning in his pillow, he tried to recall any details of the strange dream, but his memory was confused mess of alien words and feelings.

"_Are you sure?"_

For a moment, his confusion intensified. Then the fragments coalesced, finally.

He had banged Blair Waldorf last night. _Wow_. Now he had whole a new perspective on the terms 'mystifying experience'. The girl was been so…._wow_.

He was been reluctant to fall asleep because he couldn't seem to get out of his brain how exceptionally surreal it was been, being her first. Chuck glanced at the clock on his nightstand and realized he had slept less than three hours. No wonder that his mind was hazy.

There was the weirdest stirring in the pit of his stomach, but he wasn't hungry. He wasn't particularly nauseous neither.

He thought of Blair, so wild and hot, flirty and many other things you weren't supposed to associate with _the_ Constance'sQueen Bitch.

The stirring intensified.

Freaky.

Better go out for breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lifetime after lifetime 2**

Summary: Chuck and Blair, finding each other, lifetime after lifetime .While this Blair's POV balances out the previous Chuck's POV, you won't need reading the first instalment to understand anything, since they are simply two unrelated Reincarnation fics.

Ship: Blair/Chuck

Spoilers: For 2.08 only.

AN: This is for those passionate reviewers, whose enthusiastic response compelled me to write a second part!

"What we are never changes, but who we are never stops changing."

October 2009, New York.

Blair Waldrof combed her long brown locks before going to sleep. Slow, rhythmic stokes as her gaze remained fixated on her reflection, strangely enraptured by it. Her eyes were reddened and tired, a side effect of the violent fit of tears she had given in to earlier that night.

She felt lost, completely swept away by a bittersweet feeling she had never known before.

"Look, I'd rather wait. Maybe in the future..."

Chuck had told her, and for once, she had believed him, believed in him, in that sweet ache that threatened to choke her when his coal eyes burned into hers.

"I suppose there could be some excruciating pleasure in that."

She had answered him, although so far the only excruciating thing about it was this sadness that cloaked her at the very thought of not having what she wanted, whom she wanted.

Now there was a painful sweetness that invaded her, when she recalled the branding softness of that one kiss she had received tonight: it might have been light, but she could still feel the imprint of his lips lingering on hers.

She was never been kissed like that, before, and it was the single most romantic, angst-ridden night of her life. Trust Chuck Bass to give her a cinema moment only to make it depressing as the hell.

There, between those four walls, Blair could admit she had never loved like this before. Sure, she had been in love with Nate Archibald for as long she could remember, but it was been a childlike sentiment, fragile and straight-ford, simple and dreamy.

In loving Chuck Bass she had learnt to look at herself with new eyes, she had discovered what it meant to be bound to a man against your will, against common sense. Sometimes, she felt like that Basshole was part of her, some lost appendage that was been ripped forcefully away from her flesh ages ago and twisted beyond recognition.

There was a certain doomed sentiment to their tempestuous history. Her caustic affair with him was been accidental, as were the feelings that had erupted from it, yet it seemed that since the first time she had given herself to him, some hidden, supernatural compatibility had been sparked- pulling them to each other for what felt like lifetime.

Blair sighed; perhaps she was just romanticizing reality, once again. But there was a fact, that even her most rational self could not argue; as she gazed into the mirror, taking in her puffy eyes and flushed cheeks, the morose expression her features composed, she found no ugliness in her image.

She knew that, as he left her house, Chuck had thought her beautiful, as well.

It had to be a sign that something -maybe, everything- was changing.

It was a reason to hope.

**December 1513, Venice.**

Bernice glided across the salon, well aware of the thousand eyes focused on her, some with desire or admiration, others with loathing and condescension.

She smiled pleasantly :she was used to arising such attention at her public appearances, since she was fourteen. She was proud of being an Honest Courtesan. It was a better fate for a woman, in these times, than being locked inside a house and forced to shove child after child out of her body like a mindless animal. She could not be respectable, but at least she was free: she belonged to nobody, just as nobody belonged to her.

And she was granted the luxury of the political scene.

To think that her fate could have been so very different; when her parents had died. It was only because of her unusual, dark-red hair and milky skin that she was been saved from a certain, premature, miserable death.

It was only because of her delectable colouring that of the most fashionable courtesans at La Serenissima had noticed of her - a filthy, bony child covered in rags among far too many other pitiful , haggard-looking beggars- and taken her in as an 'apprentice'.

Had Bernice not been left orphaned so early on in life, she too would have grown to be another of those ignorant, humble women who married soon and learnt to hide behind their husbands and sons, keeping their mouths shut and their hands busy until they forgot themselves.

Instead, she had been blessed with an appropriate instruction and the right to be opinionated, to be able to entertain a proper gentleman inside and out a bedroom. In her opinion ,she was no more of a prostitute than any other woman of her time.

She turned around and met his eyes. The Marquis' green eyes always burned on her skin, even when he was on the other side of the room.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she refused to move toward him. Regardless of how much she enjoyed their battles of wit – or the more soft-spoken, lazy conversations which followed their intercourse- he was just another one of her clients.

Well, to be completely honest, he was not like any of her clients: even if his words provoked her frequently for his perverse amusement, the gentle consideration of his gestures towards her was not merely for the purpose of getting her in bed. The Marquis never patronized her unless it was for jest and he never dismissed her opinions, whether he shared them or not. And when he asked her to play a part in his little plots, or used her as source of inside information… she could always read in his body language a silent, unconcealed respect. He treated her as an equal.

Perhaps they were indeed equals: in a society where females were little more than instruments for procreation or pleasure and physical birth deformities were considered a Devil's mark, they were both faithless creatures, walking the line between being integrated and isolated, forsaken and welcome.

She was born poor and female. He was born rich, noble and with one missing ear.

Their curses were different, and yet jusy as heavy and inescapable.

Romance… here it was an illusion worthy of being mocked by her and her friends in the House, whenever one of them received a ridiculous sonnet or a sweetness-dripping letter by a lust-sick admirer.

There was no such thing as romantic love, only passion and possession, the power they could give you or take from you.

Yet… she belonged to nobody, but if it was been a possible or desirable condition, she would have chosen him, if only because his disillusionment with human nature and his resourcefulness matched hers.

He was not a handsome man, Bernice supposed, but she had had so many lovers that their appearance had stopped making any difference to her. It was only the Marquis' touch that made whole her body hum in recognition when he offered her his arm and it was only the sensation of his lips upon hers that made her to ache to hold him and to have him holding her.

She stopped to converse with few gentlemen before he reached her by the balcony, a faint, self-satisfied smirk on his thin mouth. She inhaled deeply as she stepped outside and the spring breeze hit her face.

He was behind her.

"My lady"

"My Lord"

He kissed her hand, awakening that strange, languorous feeling in the pit of her womb, and while his head bent his long brown locks fell forward, leaving his deformity exposed for a single moment

Although he was quite self-conscious about it, she often had the impulse to trace her fingers over each inch of his jaw until they reached that oddly ridged spot.

"I trust you have had enough time to consider my offer, Bernice."

It was a powerful weapon, his silky voice. The way her name rolled off his tongue, soft like a spellbound caress on her heart. A shame it wouldn't have shaken her out of her resolution.

She would miss the sound of his voice.

She would miss him.

"I'm afraid my opinion has not shifted, my Lord. I'm comfortable with my life and I do not wish to change it, much less to become the kept mistress of a nobleman in a foreign country."

Her smile turned a bit more forced to match the distant politeness of her tone, but everything in her was clenching and unclenching with each passing beat of her heart. He wanted to take her with him in London, and that meant more than she could express. Her Marquis wanted her for himself: the mere thought was more precious than any gift she had ever received from him or any other man.

But she could not accept his request, however tempting it may be.

The Marquis frowned, both angry and incredulous at once.

"I have to wonder the reasons behind your unreasonableness then. You are usually quite a sensible creature, but this is anything but a smart decsion."

The condescension of his tone was meant to anger and it performed the desired effect, well.

A shadow of anger ran across her features -Bernice bit the inside of her cheek to keep from biting back. This was one of the reasons why accepting was not a serious possibility.

The lust which joined them was intense and easily arisen, but their tempers often caught them in a struggle for dominance. Being subordinated to him would have destroyed both her independence and the very essence of what made their relationship so pleasant.

Far too aware of her tense anger, he drawled out the rest of his argument. Points they already talked about.

"How old are you? Twenty, twenty-two? A courtesan's glory doesn't last much longer. If you leave Venice with me now, before falling in disgrace, before catching syphilis or being forced to sell your jewels to provide for yourself, my protection would make your future much safer, more comfortable."

Bernice stepped back, shaking her head "There's more dignity in living in Venice as an Honest Courtesan, than in London as your private toy. Passion is a volatile master, regardless of our feelings at the moment, you cannot expect me to be so naïve as to gamble my entire existence over it. While we are here, we can meet on even ground. It would change everything, if I followed you. Let's not spoil our memories over a fantasy."

"I could give anything you wanted. Have I ever denied anything you asked of me?"

In two years, she had so rarely asked for anything from him…he usually gave in to her whims so effortlessly. It was breaking her to let him go, but it was better this way.

Her happiest memories all concerned him in some measure: she wanted to preserve them.

She smiled at him a little sadly. "Today I'm your companion, the sole image of your desire. Tomorrow, if I come, I'll be an amusing distraction from your affairs at the best. I'm someone here. I can make my way as it pleases me, to belong in the literary circles. Let it be enough."

She could make her way, without him while she kept finding wealthy, influential patrons. She could write passable poetry and paint quite well. His presence in her life was not vital, was not necessary.

It was just… inspiring, exciting, fulfilling.

He was staring at her, again with that penetrating, raw intensity that made her to feel more naked and exposed than when a new lover's hands undid hurriedly the laces of her corset.

The Marquis nodded curtly, like if anything she had just told was been completely expected, and Bernice felt an unexpected, unwelcome bitterness almost chocking her. She wasn't used to bid goodbye and care about it. Perhaps his business would take him away from his British estates and back to the Republic someday. She would probably have already forgotten about their passionate encounters by then.

But his next request, uttered with such firm conviction, shocked her completely.

"Then wait for me, and come back with me in few months, as my bride."

Bernice stood still and frozen for one seemingly endless moment. Then she raised her chin haughtily, vaguely offended that he meant to play with her with so little tact.

"I know you have already a wife, my Lord."

He was been little more than a child when his father had married him to his cousin.

"The marriage has been barely consummated, there are no children. I can claim I've never touched her and have it annulled; now that my father is no longer living."

"You would do this to have me?"

Her voice was hesitant, her eyes full of disbelieving wonder. He smirked a little.

"I loath her, I love you. If that is what it takes to keep you, I will not hesitate."

That one night he had shared with his wife had been a degrading experience. Not because she was ugly or because they were related, but because she was been disgusted from the very thought of being touched by a 'cursed man' regardless of whether he was her cousin, her husband. It had taken years to him to recover from the shame and the humiliation of that night, and he had no laid a hand on his consort since then.

Nor had he any desire to. He'd travel to the ends of the earth to escape such a fate.

There was no gratification, no favour that could not be bought with his ample fortune, and no price he would not to pay to replace his wife with Bernice.

Bernice, whose mind was sharp and whose tongue, so scathing, who was completely unlike any other woman he had met before. Bernice, who touched him without embarrassment or inhibition, or reluctance.

To share his life with her was a pleasure worth waiting for.

"Nobody would know of your past, in London. You would be respected, admired even." He continued, studying her blank, beautiful visage and still reading signs of incredulity there.

"You would take me as your wife?" she repeated slowly, softly.

"I would be honoured to, my dear."

She swallowed the knot in her throat and looked briefly away from his ardent gaze, gathering her reeling thoughts.

To be wed to him of all the men…it a foolish design, a dream she didn't dare to trust.

When she looked at him again, she had to contain her desire to kiss him breathless, but she managed to dissimulate her juvenile eagerness with a severe expression and a taste of cool humour in her voice.

"If you were free, and you came back to ask for my hand, my Lord, I suppose I should be a fool to refuse."

"I suppose you would be, yes," he prodded her, to hide how relieved he was, inwardly, "I'll write to let know how soon I can resolve the matter."

"Write to me often, then," Bernice allowed a small challenging grin to break across her lips, "I love receiving letters and there's always some excruciating pleasure in waiting for them."

The suggestive nuances of her tone had the Marquis imagining how many men had written love missives for her, how many of those she had kept as trophies. It filled him with a fierce determination to scheme and manoeuvre till he could have her all to himself, as soon as possible.

Soon, there would be been no sharing her with anyone else.

END


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